What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  ‘Mum, I don’t want it anyway. It’s yours.’

  ‘That’s not how I see it. This house was all of ours. So all of us deserve something from its sale. And perhaps this might buy you a bit of time to think about doing something different with your life. Anyway, it would give me enormous pleasure to see what you do with it. Better than waiting till I’m dead and gone. There’s no more to be said.’

  ‘Something different?’ It was an absurd suggestion. She wasn’t trained for anything else and had no idea what she could possibly do outside the world of books.

  ‘Why not? I am, so why can’t you? Think about it, Bea. That’s all I’m suggesting. If you decide you don’t need the money, you can always save it for Ben.’

  Bea looked across the table at her mother, returning her sharp gaze. Her iron-grey hair framed a determined expression. Bea had learned long ago there was no point in arguing with Adele when she had made up her mind. The only thing to do was to make up her own, and in that split second, she did so. Pushing back her chair, she stood up and walked around the table to give Adele a big hug.

  ‘Thank you. It’s going to be really helpful when, and if, I make a change.’

  ‘That’s just what I hoped you’d say. Now, what else have you got to tell me?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Ellen.’

  *

  Looking back over the day, Ellen could see that storm clouds had been gathering all afternoon. Oliver had arrived just as she was putting together a scratch sandwich lunch. Matt was in a state of high excitement at the prospect of a friend’s football party and sleep-over – on a Sunday! Emma had patched up her differences with Freya and they were now inseparable again. If they weren’t together, Emma spent hours closeted in her bedroom, giggling with Freya on the phone. Now she announced she would be staying overnight at Freya’s.

  Normally Ellen drew the line at the children being away on the night before a school day but she had managed to convince herself to bend the rules. Their absence meant that she could have Oliver to herself. For once, they didn’t need to snatch a hurried hour or two at the flat but had the whole evening together.

  That afternoon, though, the children were being particularly trying, so she made allowances for his tetchiness with them. Why should he be consistently pleasant when his attempts to forge any kind of relationship with Emma were met by a brick wall? She was either dismissive or plain rude. Ellen felt like shaking her, embarrassed that her daughter could be so ill-mannered, but at the same time she didn’t want to cause a scene by saying anything. Meanwhile Matt wouldn’t keep still or quiet. He dashed around the house, noisy and insistent. Aware of Oliver’s worsening mood, Ellen had taken her son to one side and asked him to calm down – with no effect whatsoever.

  By the time they had left, she felt completely ragged, exhausted by the efforts she’d made to keep the peace. She’d been careful to make Oliver’s ham sandwich with just the amount of mustard that she knew he liked. She’d uncorked a bottle of his favourite Sauvignon. She insisted he didn’t help but sat him in a quietish corner with the Observer and a drink. She suggested Emma and Matt went upstairs to pack their stuff. But she couldn’t stop the frenzy of family life intruding and Oliver plainly wasn’t in the mood to tolerate it. He fortified himself with a couple of glasses of wine but, judging from his thunderous expression, they didn’t improve matters.

  At last the children left and a blessed silence descended on the house. However, Ellen’s hopes that the atmosphere would change with their absence had been misplaced. The children might not be there, but they had clearly irritated Oliver beyond the point of no return. He remained monosyllabic, clearly not in the mood for conversation. They ate supper on their knees in silence, watching a dullish episode of Midsomer Murders.

  On the way to bed, their exchanges had been kept to a minimum. But what did she expect, she asked herself, as she brushed her teeth. He didn’t have family of his own and wasn’t used to the pandemonium, the constant demands and changes of mood. It was unreasonable to imagine he would adapt immediately, especially when Emma was making things so difficult. She would be patient and do whatever it took to smooth over this difficult period of transition. Everyone was allowed an off-day or two, including Oliver.

  When she returned to the bedroom she found him standing by her side of the bed in his boxers, her photograph of Simon in his hand. A slight frown creased his forehead and a pale blue vein she’d never noticed before had appeared at the left side of his temple. She imagined the blood pumping through it.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ She crossed the room to stand beside him, touching his arm.

  He flinched, then moved away from her, almost bumping into the chair where she’d left her clothes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she persisted. ‘I know the kids have been a pain today but that’s what they’re like. They’ll come round in the end.’ But how many times am I going to have to reassure him before they do?

  ‘It isn’t the children.’ He sounded terse, angry.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, mystified. ‘Well, what, then? The job-hunting?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t go on and on about that. I’ve told you I’m doing my best.’ As he turned to face her, he was flushed with anger. ‘I don’t know what else you want me to do.’

  ‘Don’t be like this. Please,’ she appealed, patting the duvet beside her. ‘Sit down with me. Let’s talk about it. I know things have been more difficult than we’d envisaged since Em and Matt came back but I’m trying my best to make everything work. That’s what I want more than anything.’

  ‘Do you?’ She was shocked by the force of his question. ‘Do you, really?’ Instead of sitting by her, he began to pace the room.

  ‘Of course. You know I do.’ How could he believe anything else after all they’d said to each other? ‘What’s happened to you? I really don’t understand.’

  He ignored her last question, stopping to stare at the photo in his hand. ‘Why do you insist on sleeping with this by your bed?’ His voice was low, unloving suddenly.

  ‘My picture of Simon? He’s always been there. You know that.’ A cold arrow of anxiety found its way to her heart.

  ‘Have you ever thought about how I feel, with him watching us all the time?’

  She couldn’t read his expression – or perhaps she didn’t want to try. ‘You’ve never said anything before.’ She cursed herself for not having moved the photo weeks ago, but whenever she’d thought about it, something had always stopped her.

  ‘I’m saying it now.’ His mouth twisted as he thrust the frame towards her so she was looking straight at Simon. ‘How can you expect me to make love to you with your husband looking on?’

  ‘I honestly never thought . . . but it’s only a photo. I can easily move him.’ Ellen didn’t understand how or why things had deteriorated so badly between them. She wanted to defuse the situation, but Oliver’s temper had made him unreachable all day. Now more than ever. She reached for the picture but he raised it above his head, out of her reach.

  Then he threw it across the room with as much force as he could muster. Seconds seemed like minutes as she watched the frame spin through the air and smash against the wardrobe. The noise reverberated around the room as the glass shattered, flying from the frame, leaving Simon looking up through the few remaining splinters. For a second, both Ellen and Oliver stood staring at each other, stunned by what had just happened. The noise seemed to have shocked Oliver out of his rage: a hand covered his mouth and his eyes were wide and unreadable. Ellen was the first to move.

  ‘Have you completely lost your mind? There was absolutely no need for that.’ She snatched up the picture and ran from the room.

  ‘Ellen! Wait.’

  But she had no intention of waiting. Nothing that had happened during the afternoon had justified this. Her only thought was to get as far away from Oliver as possible. She ran downstairs and into the kitchen. She wanted to be alone, to think, but there was nowhere she co
uld escape him. She could hear him moving about upstairs. Then she saw the key to the shed gleaming on the hook by the french windows. Within moments she was padding barefoot across the damp grass and unlocking her studio. She sank onto the sofa bed, her head spinning.

  She had no idea how much time passed before she began to notice how cold she was. The house was in darkness. The half-moon was hazy behind cloud. Oliver hadn’t even tried to follow her outside. She replayed that afternoon and evening again. Everything had obviously got on top of him so she should try to understand that. But to break something he knew was so very precious to her? That she couldn’t understand. However, she didn’t want to stay in the shed all night so she steeled herself to return to the house and a confrontation. He couldn’t be allowed to get away with that.

  Turning the handle of the kitchen door, she thought she caught a glimpse of movement on the stairs. Then it was gone. She turned the handle again. She was as sure as she could be that she had left the lock unsnibbed. Not now. She shook the door. There was no question: it was locked.

  ‘Oliver!’ she whispered, as loudly as she dared, not wanting to wake the neighbours. ‘Oliver!’

  No answer.

  Had he followed her down, watched her let herself into the shed and then shut her out? Surely not. He had snapped out of his temper when the glass smashed. She had seen for herself how shocked he had been by his own action. But how else could the door have locked? Could she have been mistaken about the snib? Perhaps in her haste, she hadn’t secured it properly. She didn’t want to admit to herself what she knew to be the truth.

  A light drizzle had set in. Wrapping her arms round herself in a useless attempt to keep warm and thanking God she’d had the presence of mind to grab an old cardigan from the back of a kitchen chair, she retreated to the shed to consider her options. The bedroom was at the front of the house so he wouldn’t hear a stone against the back windows. The safety glass she’d installed to protect the children meant she couldn’t break in. The overgrown trellis around the garden wall prevented her climbing over. In any case, there was only a faint landing light glowing from one of the neighbours’ houses. They had obviously all gone to bed. She would have to spend the night wrapped up in the two blankets she remembered were trussed in the base of the sofa-bed and hope she didn’t freeze to death. Furious, she put Simon’s photo on the table where she could see it and began to organise herself.

  *

  Ellen woke, rigid with cold, as dawn cast a flat grey light through the shed windows. For a second she didn’t remember where she was but then, as the events of the previous night came back to her, she sat up, confused. What had happened had taken on the insubstantiality of the dreams that had possessed her during her few hours of sleep. Something had made Oliver snap. How responsible was she for that? She couldn’t help him with a job but she should have been able to deal better with Emma than she had. Perhaps then this might have been avoided. She found it almost impossible to credit what had happened but the broken photo frame was proof. She got up and started moving about in an effort to reboot her circulation.

  She made herself a cup of coffee and decided that as soon as she was safely indoors she would have it out with him. However badly the children provoked him, his behaviour was totally unacceptable. It was then that she noticed the blood that had flowed onto her nightdress from a cut on her finger.

  Eventually she saw the light go on in the kitchen. Moments afterwards Oliver was running across the grass to the shed. He flung open the door. ‘Ellen! My love! What happened?’

  ‘You locked me out. Why?’ She was determined not to give an inch.

  ‘But I thought you’d gone into Em’s room to get away from me. I didn’t blame you after what I’d done. I had no idea you were out here.’

  She was almost convinced but couldn’t stop herself stiffening as he put his arms round her. If he noticed, he ignored it.

  ‘You must have been freezing. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t apologise enough. I don’t know what came over me.’ He stroked the hair from her forehead as if she was a child. ‘Everything got on top of me. I know that’s not an excuse but I promise, absolutely promise, nothing like that will ever happen again.’

  Her resolve to maintain her distance dissolved as she felt the warmth of his body, his touch. She let him lead her back to the house where he ran her a bath, fetched a clean towel and then her clothes. Nothing was too much trouble. At last, won over by his repeated apologies for his unwar-ranted display of temper, his assurances that there would be no repeat performance, his explanation of his frustration with the children, which he had tried to control, and his anxiety about finding a job, she forgave him.

  She wanted their relationship to work. She wanted a step-father for Emma and Matt, however reluctant they were to have one. After so long, she wanted someone to look after her as well. She didn’t want to entertain any doubts that would spoil what they had. Her certainty that he was the man for her would surely pull them through. This episode had been a hiccup that in time they would forget.

  Chapter 24

  Between the thin cotton curtains, Bea could just make out the skeletal outlines of trees through a blurring of mist. Drops of condensation trailed down the panes of glass, pooling on the window ledge above the woefully ineffective night storage heater. The throbbing above her right eye intensified as she tried to roll back up the slope of the mattress away from Mark, gathering the blankets round her as she did so. How she longed for the easy warmth of her multi-togged duvet and her pocket-sprung mattress at home. She tried to ease the grip on her memory of last night’s events but they refused to let go.

  Ben had gone to spend the weekend with his father amid many complaints. She had managed to guilt-trip him into agreeing to go by pointing out how long it had been since he’d seen his half-sisters, how much his father missed him, then slipped in the added temptation of Carrie’s excellent (damn her) cooking. After he’d left, she dipped into an unpromising manuscript until Mark had eventually picked her up to drive to Norfolk. He was running too late for them to find somewhere open for supper on the way. Instead, having failed to spot even a chippie, they’d stopped at a Spar garage on the A11 to stock up with a few emergency rations before finally arriving at the cottage close to midnight. Nervous of what the rest of the night had in store, they both rushed to open the first of the two Cabernet Sauvignon wine-boxes. Even the almost teetotal Mark glugged back the large glass he poured himself with obvious relief.

  Then he had given Bea the two-minute tour, drawing the curtains and turning up the storage heaters as they went. The front door opened straight into the dining room where three chairs circled a round table with a dusty dried-flower arrangement. To the right, a tiny whitewashed kitchen held an old-style gas cooker with eye-level gas grill, a butler’s sink with wooden draining board, a fifties yellow metal cabinet and a large chopping-board sitting on an ancient fridge. So, cooking would be basic to non-existent, she registered with some relief. At least he wouldn’t be expecting her to knock up a three-course gourmet meal. Back through the dining room to the sitting room, where some tired armchairs and a sofa focused on a gaping inglenook fireplace with an aged TV to one side. At the far end there was a door to the garden with a nine-mile-an-hour draught racing in over the tiled floor, until Bea replaced the jolly snake draught excluder that had been kicked to one side. On the right was the bathroom with a single-bar electric fire that Mark switched on with a pull of its cord. O Health and Safety, where art thou? Bea cast her eyes heaven wards and saw dark patches of damp bubbling the plaster on the pale blue walls.

  Upstairs in the eaves there were three bedrooms, one leading through to the next. All Bea noticed was the sub-zero temperature, the dead flies on the windowsills and the extremely uncomfortable-looking double brass bedstead (the only one) that they’d presumably be sharing later. Cue another drink. Swiftly followed by another when she spotted mouse droppings back in the kitchen.

  As he showed her around, Mark
continually apologised for the lack of a decent heating system, the mice (‘Sweet little field mice – you’ll see’), the long drive, the lack of shops. Bea countered with repeated reassurances that everything was just as she’d imagined. However, not for a moment had she imagined that when he’d said ‘basic’ he’d meant it. She hadn’t realised how basic things could get in the wilds of Norfolk. As he set about lighting a fire, Bea busied herself making cheese on toast with the plastic Cheddar and cotton-wool bread they’d picked up on the way, and took it through.

  The strains of James Taylor came from the record player at the back of the room. Bea could see several LPs that she recognised at a glance, strewn on the rag rug beneath the listing standard lamp: Dory Previn, Fleetwood Mac, Nick Drake, Leonard Cohen, the Lovin’ Spoonful, Country Joe, the Byrds and, of course, the daddy of them all, Dylan. A record collection speaks volumes about a man, she thought.

  Fortified by yet another glass of wine, they sat huddled together on the sagging sofa in front of the fire, plates on their knees. The flames roared up the chimney, taking most of the heat with them. Bea and Mark kicked off their shoes and stretched their feet into the fireplace as near as they dared.

  ‘It’s always like this to start with at this time of year. I should have warned you,’ said Mark. ‘By tomorrow it should feel much warmer, now I’ve turned the heating up. Here, have my sister’s gloves.’

  Bea could feel that he was beginning to relax a little now, just as her initial misgivings were surrendering to the influence of the wine. As she slipped on the knitted fingerless gloves, she realised her feet were suddenly burning hot and pulled them back with a yelp, almost knocking her plate to the floor. Within seconds, they were freezing again and she gingerly moved them nearer to the fire. He laughed and took her hand. ‘What would you like to do tomorrow?’